Mojave DUST
by Akula111
Summary: This is basically a sort of fiction based around the backstory of the New Vegas mod DUST, and the content it adds to the game. It follows the story of one survivor with a shady past, and the people he meets as he tries to keep himself sane and hopefully find a way out of the Mojave Wasteland, to safety. Contains violence and implied rape. If you enjoyed it, lemme know in a PM.
1. Chapter 1 - The Safehouse

**Backstory**

 **The year is 2281, and the world has been more or less destroyed by a nuclear war that occurred in 2077. Entire countries were burned, and not a single one was spared. In the United States, traces of civilization have sprung up, a few notable ones being in the Washington DC area, the San Francisco area and Las Vegas, and the surrounding Mojave desert. The Strip, the main hub of the Mojave wasteland, built in the casinos of the old Las Vegas, is controlled by the mysterious Mr. House. He controlled the Strip using robots armed to the teeth with guns, and had a few deals with the larger factions of the Mojave, the NCR and the Legion. He was overthrown by one person, a Mojave Express courier who managed to reprogram his robot army and use them against him, killing him and eventually storming the Hoover Dam, which was the main flashpoint of fighting between the larger factions due to the power it could dispense. After the battle for the Dam, the Courier had killed Caesar and more or less destroyed his Legion, and killed General Oliver of the NCR, the man in command of the NCR in the Mojave. The Courier then assumed Mr. House's place as the ruler of New Vegas, enforcing his will with the help of his robot army. 20 years later, in 2301, the Mojave has almost completely been purged of any life. A strange cloud of poisonous gas dubbed "The Cloud" descended upon the New Vegas Strip, killing anybody who came into contact with it. With the gas came strange mutants called Tunnelers, hunched over black creatures whose skin was almost bulletproof. They quickly overwhelmed the NCR's forces, who tried to evacuate the Mojave, leaving the rest of the unharmed, and sane, survivors alone to fend for themselves against the Tunnelers and the people who had turned insane from the Cloud. The NCR's presence in the Mojave remained, albeit taking more of an introverted role than previously. They adopted a 'shoot on sight' doctrine to normal survivors, since some had a tendency to kill, pillage and burn anything they got their hands on. This story focuses on one particular survivor, and his journey through the desolate wastelands as he tries to keep a grip on his sanity and hopefully escape the Mojave.**

The stench of death is overpowering. The Mojave wastes have always had a certain aroma of death, blood baked into the sand, but there in the supposed "safehouse", the smell was amplified. The source of the smell was definitely the mass of flesh and blood in the main room, reminiscent of something from a slasher flick. Atop the pile of cartilage and flesh lay a man, his body folded up like he'd been tossed onto the pile by something or someone. He looks to be in his late 30s, with long unkempt brown hair and a beard to match. He has a couple scars on his cheek, easily visible on his pale skin. The man appears to be wearing only a tanktop and underwear, which have now been drenched with blood. The man appears to be alive, taking shallow breaths. He lays face up, and his eyelids are closed. Despite this, his eyes are flickering around, he's obviously conscious. After a while he opens his eyes, gasping. He takes a few seconds to calm himself, looking around the room.

The room looks like it was some kind of civilian bunker before the war, the kind that people in the suburbs used to pay top dollar to have installed in their basement. There are a few cabinets and shelves around the room, but they hold nothing but dust, obviously been picked clean previously. Aside from those, there are two bed frames in one half of the room, one with a mattress on it, with springs poking through, threatening to scratch up whoever was foolish enough to lay on it and probably give them a severe case of tetanus. Against one of these beds, the one with the mattress on, is slumped another body, the body of a younger looking woman. Her skin is black, that of an African American. She is wearing a white, blood-drenched shirt with a satchel slung over her shoulder, resting at the waist. Almost her entire torso and her legs are covered in blood, still dripping from the open gash in the front of her head. The gash looks like it had been caused by some kind of large blade, and more or less disfigured her facial features beyond repair. On the stairs leading up to the above-ground section of the safehouse lay another corpse, this one of a young boy, looks no older than a teenager. He is laying on his stomach, and is wearing a torn red hoody with jeans. His back has a hole in it, looks like it had been caused by the same weapon used to cleave open the poor woman's skull. The kid is posed out as if he was trying to crawl up the stairs when someone killed him, his hand still clasping at one of the steps. The bearded man looks between the woman and the kid groggily. He appears to know the woman, but does not recognise the boy. He sits up and looks her over, sighing heavily.

 **"Annie... fuck..."**

The man speaks with the accent of someone from around Washington DC, he's a long way from home.

He rubs his head, standing up and checking her over. He opens her satchel up and pulls out a small piece of cloth, wrapped around something. He unfurls it to find a needle filled with a dull orange liquid, a small cork on the end of the needle to prevent it from jabbing through the cloth. The man sighs again, rolling the needle back up.

He knows exactly what it is, the woman had called it her "escape plan", which in the Mojave could only mean one thing: it was some form of deadly poison, for the user to take their own life in extreme circumstances. He takes the needle and starts looking around the room for his gear. After a brief rummage he arms himself with a lead pipe with a jagged, sharp end, and manages to find a pair of old, dusty, weather-beaten jeans. They appear to be his, as they fit him. He can't find the rest of his gear in the room, they must have been removed.

As he passes the kid on the stairs, he hears the door at the top of them rattling, the knob turning as someone opens it. He grasps the pipe in his hands, getting into a defensive position. The door opens and a figure emerges from the dustclouds that seeped through the door. The figure is wearing a brown duster trenchcoat, over tribal armour, made from cloth and leather. He has war-paint on his face, and looks like some kind of Native American. At first he doesn't notice the man on the stairs, getting halfway down before stopping and looking at the man. He gasps loudly, obviously in tribal stutters, backing up a little.

 **"Y-Y-You... how are you alive..."**

The tribal rummages in the duster, trying to grasp at the machete on his belt. He doesn't get far, as the man lunges at him with the pipe, growling. The tribal lets out a surprised yelp as the man's pipe finds it's way into his throat, the sharp end digging deep into his flesh, causing blood to trickle out. The man shoves the tribal past him, causing him to topple down the stairs uncontrollably before landing on his head on the bottom step, letting out a sickening crunch as his neck snaps. The man looks down at the now dead tribal, breathing heavily with a look of disgust on his face. He walks down and grabs the duster off the corpse, throwing it on over his bloodstained tanktop. He loots the tribal, finding a small pouch of a sweet smelling herb, he can vaguely remember someone saying it was "healing powder" previously, and a hunk of meat in a cloth. It looks like flesh, but upon closer inspection there is a human finger lodged in the middle of the meat. The man looks at it and scowls in disgust.

 **"Ah Christ. Sick bastard..."**

He takes the machete that the tribal had, and stuffs it into his belt. He turns and walks up the stairway to the door. He takes one last look at the corpses in the room, from his now deceased girlfriend Annie, to the kid he'd never met before, to the tribal, and opens the door, stepping out of the safehouse and out into the Mojave air, covering his eyes with his hand so the sun doesn't singe them out.


	2. Chapter 2 - Cassandra

The Survivor started heading out East, over the hills. Hearing the sounds of what seemed like ghouls just to the North of the safehouse made him decide to head the other way. It took him roughly 5 minutes to come to the peak of one of the hills, where he saw smoke pillaring out from a burned out town. Here he sat for a few minutes, considering his options.

 **"Hmm... I think I remember that place as being called Nipton. Could be worth scavving."**

With that, he sets off down the hill, clutching the machete in his hand, since danger can come from anywhere in the Mojave nowadays. The sounds of gunshots and screaming nearby cause the Survivor to duck down and scan the area carefully. He decides to at least investigate the noises, there could be a chance for him to loot some supplies from any corpses, and since he has no food it would be in his interest to at least try. He creeps along, covered by the hills, following the sounds. He gets to a hill overlooking a road near Nipton, and sees that there are a few overturned cars blocking the road that ran through a kind of valley. As he looks down he spots a few figures in the dust, on the road near the overturned cars. There appear to be three figures, one is on the ground with another hovering over them, seemingly holding them down, and another one stood a little back, watching them. The screams and pleas of mercy made it obvious what was happening down there, that some poor unfortunate had been captured by bandits and was paying for their mistakes. The Survivor looks down at his machete, and debates whether or not to intervene. The figure standing back and watching appears to be holding a rifle, but was preoccupied watching the other person working on the poor survivor. It would be easy enough to sneak up on them, but it was a matter of whether or not he wanted to risk it. After a second of thought about the possibility of the bandits having food, and the sobbing of the survivor, he decides to play the hero. He creeps down the hill, making sure to keep quiet. Hidden by the dust, he makes his way down to the roadside, near them. As he gets closer he can hear talking coming from one of the tribals.

 **"Oh yeah, I like it when ya squirm! Heh heh heh..."**

The Survivor slowly unsheathes his machete and moves out onto the road, creeping up behind the bandit with the rifle. He gets close to the bandit, who looks like a tribal with similar armour as the one the Survivor had just killed. The Survivor gets up closer, raises the machete and with one sweep he hacks at the tribal's neck, cutting maybe halfway into it and felling the tribal instantly, making a dull thud. The tribal who was busy with his victim hears it, and looks back at the Survivor, who is standing over the dying tribal. He reaches for the kitchen knife tucked into his belt, but the Survivor manages to grab the rifle, a rusty, battered old 1887 Winchester Repeater from the dying tribal's grasp and aims at the tribal's chest, stopping the tribal in his tracks. The victim continues to cry, their eyes closed shut, not knowing what had happened. The tribal looks up at the Survivor, he has a kind of sick grin on his face. It's clear that he's batshit crazy, the blood spattered across his face a telltale sign. He looks at the Survivor with wild eyes, breathing heavily. He's wearing almost the same leather armour as the other tribal, except his pants are pulled down halfway. The Survivor just looks at him, keeping the rifle shouldered. The Tribal speaks to him, his voice sounds cracked and broken, like his vocal chords are straining.

 **"Well, what are you waiting for, big hero? Do it. Shoot me."**

The Survivor narrows his eyes and decides to oblige the deranged tribal's request, pulling the trigger of the rifle. There's no cracking sound though, just a dull click as the rifle fails to fire. The Survivor looks down at the rifle and sees that it's jammed up from the dust, cursing himself. Before he can do anything else, the tribal charges him, knocking him onto his back and sending the rifle clattering away from them. The tribal laughs darkly, trying to hold the Survivor down as he pulls the rusty, bloody kitchen knife from his belt. The Survivor snarls, moving his arms around. The tribal brings the knife up and is about to plunge it into the Survivor's chest when he suddenly lets out a howl of pain, stopping in his tracks. The Survivor's knee connects with his exposed groin, hitting him square in the testicles. The Survivor then takes the opportunity to grab the Tribal's hand and plunge the knife into his temple, tossing him to the side and off him. The tribal doesn't even make a sound aside from the dull thud as he hits the road.

The Survivor looks at him in disgust as he gets to his feet, heading for the rifle that lay a couple metres away. He picks it up and inspects it, turning his attention to the first tribal's camping rucksack. He opens it and looks inside, finding an unopened tin of frank and beans, a torn playing card and two .357 rounds for the rifle. The victim sits up where she is, whimpering in pain.

The Survivor grabs the rucksack off the corpse, and throws it onto himself before looking up at the victim. He looks them over, seeing that it's a female, maybe mid 20s, with light blonde hair in a ponytail. She's wearing brown fatigues with a khaki coloured metal chestplate over the top bearing the two headed bear of the NCR, but it's been torn in places, mostly around the pants, obviously from the tribal. Her face is bloodied and her eyes are red from crying. She looks up at him, not saying anything. He looks around to make sure there are no reinforcements coming for the tribals. Satisfied that he's not under any imminent threat of beheading, he steps forward and talks to the woman.

 **"They're... uhh... dead now. You're alright. You... good on food? Supplies?"**

He clearly doesn't quite know what to say to her, just saying the first things he can think of. She shakes her head, sniffling a little as she does. She speaks to him, she sounds like she's from the Boneyard area, outside of the Mojave.

 **"I was sent into Nipton to get food by my friends. These... assholes... held me up... took my gun and my stuff... there were more of them, but they went into Nipton. Said they... wanted to try to make a trade agreement with the others there..."**

He nods, looking up and thinking about it. He then looks down at her, looking at the NCR symbol on the chestplate of her armour.

 **"You're NCR?"**

With this he sounds a little suspicious of her, the remnants of the NCR in the Mojave had taken a 'shoot on sight' policy on practically everybody who isn't one of their own, and he'd had previous run-ins with them where he barely made it out alive. She looks down at the armour and shakes her head.

 **"No no, I umm... used to be. But I kind of deserted them a while back when they told my squad to shoot a bunch of innocent survivors..."**

She seems genuine, either she's telling the truth or she's a damn good liar. The Survivor nods, standing up, seemingly a little at ease.

 **"Well no chance that you're going to shoot me in the head because I'm a wastelander then, I guess."**

He chuckles a little, looking around with the rifle slung over his back on a leather strap fashioned out of one of the tribal's belts. She nods, standing up. She winces, just this simple act seemingly causing her pain. He looks over at her, resting his hands in his duster pockets. Despite what had just happened, she seems strong, standing up straight and wiping the blood off her lip.

 **"Hey... thanks for that. Not many waster- sorry, I mean survivors, would go out of their way like that for another person nowadays."**

He nods, motioning to his new rucksack and rifle.

 **"Yeah, but potentially getting these out of it helped a lot."**

She gives him a brief, wry smile before fixing her hair.

 **"Well... I don't know your name... mine's Cassandra. Cassandra Moore. Like my mother."**

He nods.

 **"Cassandra. Hmm. I... don't remember my name. I went by a few names before but I can't remember them for the life of me. Besides, I don't intend on sticking around long enough for my name to be relevant."**

She frowns a little at that, looking him over. She notes that he seems to be a little impassive and distant, like he doesn't like being around other people. She sighs and steps backward, to him she looks like she's about to pass out from blood loss. Where she lay, there is a small pool of blood.

 **"Well, thanks for your help... survivor. I'm going to go get my gear back from these animals."**

She turns and starts walking away towards Nipton. He stands there for a few seconds and sighs deeply. He thinks about how she is completely unarmed and is likely walking into a death sentence, and starts up after her. With a few strides he catches up to her, and she seems a little surprised that he followed her.

 **"What happened to 'I don't want to stick around'?"**

He doesn't look at her, pulling the rifle off his back and fiddling with the lever. He manages to unjam it after a few cocks, and looks up, walking with her.

 **"I just thought I'd come with you and see what these guys have on them. Could use some more ammo for this thing."**

She looks at him skeptically and nods slowly, limping forward through the dust, just happy to be around someone else who isn't trying to kill her. Even if he seems a little strange.


	3. Chapter 3 - Shoot on Sight

**"Lieutenant Moore, either you shoot them or you and your men are all charged with treason and are fucking executed!"**

The demanding voice crackled through the radio, barely rising above the sound of sobbing and pleas for mercy. Cassandra stood there, her service rifle shouldered at the survivors who were cowering against the inside wall of the gas station. She was stood next to two of her squadmates, stood in the same position. Richards, the designated gunner of the group, spoke up, keeping his BAR rifle trained on the survivors.

 **"Ma'am? What do we do here? They're no threat to us..."**

Even though his face was covered by his shemagh, the trepidation in his voice was obvious. And he was telling the truth, the survivors hadn't even attempted to go for their guns, yet the NCR's 'shoot on sight' policy had dictated that they were a severe threat to Cassandra and her men. They had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, trying to take refuge from the dust storm outside in the same gas station as the Lieutenant and her men. Cassandra thought hard, she tried to imagine what her mother, the new Commander of Operations in the Mojave, would do. She quickly realises that her mother would have already shot them dead and ordered her men to burn the corpses, but she was her own person. She had been born into the NCR, and believed in their ideals, yet she couldn't bring herself to shooting innocent survivors who just wanted to live another day. So she stood there, hesitating for the longest time.

The survivors were a young couple, a man and a woman, both must've been only 19 to 20. They had kiddish faces, and were obviously terrified. The male spoke up, shaking as he comforted his girl.

 **"P-P-Please... d-don't... w-we can leave... w-we were never here..."**

Cassandra stood there quietly, thoughts racing in her head. Does she follow in her mother's footsteps and carry out her duties, losing her humanity in the process, or does she let them live and get branded as a traitor? She slowly begins to lower her rifle, and her squadmates do the same, Richards first, then Hernandez, the grenadier of the squad, who was stood to her other side, shortly after. She opens her mouth to speak, but as she does the door of the gas station swings open. A figure steps in from the dust, and she can see the dull red eyes of the Ranger helmet that they are wearing as they scan the room. A Ranger who was passing by had heard the commotion and came in to investigate after seeing the rest of Cassandra's squad standing guard outside. The Ranger steps in and looks at the survivors, and then to Cassandra. The NCR Rangers always had a kind of intimidating aura around them, and this one was no different. He seemed to tower over them all, his riot armour augmenting their view of him. He focuses his gaze on the survivors, who start crying in terror, knowing that they're probably not going to walk out alive. The Ranger speaks up, the small speakers on the side of his helmet emitting his voice with a disturbing crackle, making him sound almost inhuman.

 **"Trooper, why are these tribals not dead yet? You have your orders. Shoot. On. Sight."**

Cassandra looks at the survivors, she opens her mouth to speak, but Richards speaks for her.

 **"Sir, these ones aren't a threat! We can't just-"**

As he talks the Ranger reaches into his duster, pulls his decorated Sequoia revolver from its holster and fires two shots into the survivors, both rounds hitting their target, the survivors' foreheads. He does it quickly, and without emotion. Richards stops midsentence, in shock of what happened. The Ranger's speakers crackle to life again, emitting that same, alien voice.

 **"Shoot. On. Sight. Anything else will be classed as treason."**

He holsters the revolver and turns, striding out of the gas station and leaving them alone, resuming his patrol. During the whole scene, Cassandra seemed to lose control of her body, almost paralysed in position. She could have stopped him, but she couldn't seem to move her body, just looking at the now deceased survivors. Richards looks at her worriedly, still a little shaken up.

 **"Lieutenant... I..."**

Cassandra quickly regains her cognitive faculties and turns to him, speaking softly and unsurely, very much unlike her.

 **"I'm not your Lieutenant any more."**

Hernandez clears his throat, speaking up after wiping his brow nervously.

 **"What do you mean? You're... deserting?"**

Cassandra nods, not looking at him.

 **"Yes. You can stay with the NCR if you like. But I can't do this. Not any more."**

Richards and Hernandez exchange glances and after a second Richards speaks up.

 **"Cassie, you know that I've had your back since Reno. I trust your judgement as a leader. We're coming with you."**

Hernandez looks at her and nods in agreement. Despite being the new member of the squad he had quickly grown fond of his squadmates, and had considered them his family.

With that, Cassandra nods and turns away, walking out of the gas station. Bennett and Knight, the squad's medic and breacher respectively, are outside. They look at Cassandra, having heard the whole thing. Without a word being exchanged between them, they start to head out into the dust, Cassandra at the lead. To her, anything was better than shooting innocent survivors because a voice on a radio told her to. And even though her mother would be pissed, she pushed that thought to the back of her mind and kept on walking, leading her men off into the warm, dusty afternoon.


	4. Chapter 4 - The Bull

It didn't take long for the two to hit the outskirts of Nipton. The two didn't even speak as they walked, both lost in their own thoughts. The sun is setting, and the sky is a dark shade of red. Due to the dust being kicked up, the town's view is obscured for them, and makes it hard to see where they are. More than anything, the smell hits their noses first, an almost sickly sweet smell mixed with a sulphurous, putrid smell. Cassandra turns her nose up in disgust, covering it with her sleeve.

 **"Ugh... what's that smell?"**

The Survivor looks over at her and then sniffs at the air, after a second he looks down at his rifle, making sure it's loaded.

 **"It's human flesh. Someone's burning people here. Probably tribals, like those other guys."**

Cassandra looks over at the Survivor, she narrows her eyes. How does he know so quickly what burning flesh smells like? Sure, cannibalism has become a kind of commonplace thing in the Mojave in the past few years, but to realise the scent that quick? Seems to her like he's at the very least had run-ins with cannibals before. She feels his hand firmly pressing against her chest, snapping her back. She looks at him, about to bite his head off assuming that he was just trying to grope her, only to see that he's motioning towards the decrepit structure that lay in front of them, just barely covered by the dust. Behind it, barely visible, was another structure. They had reached the town. She nods to him and gets into a defensive structure, pulling the kitchen knife he'd armed her with out of the sheath on her thigh, gripping it tightly. The Survivor starts cautiously walking over to the side of the house, keeping the rusted old Winchester at the ready. He creeps up to one of the windows and peers inside. After checking inside and seeing that it is clear, he motions for her to follow him. Cassandra nods, staying behind him as he creeps over to the door that was barely still on its hinges. He tries the handle and the door opens without much of a fight. Eerily, the rusted hinges don't even make so much as a squeak. He disappears inside first, leaving her outside in the dust for a brief second.

He looks around inside the house, the place is a mess as expected, and there are two side rooms from the main room that he had stepped into. One looked like the kitchen, a sink visible through its doorway, and the other looked like a hallway to other rooms. He creeps forward, assuming that Cassandra had followed him in. He heads for the kitchen, the lack of food a top priority. As he crosses the threshold into the kitchen, he hears a creak behind him, something moving on the floor. He assumes that it's just Cassandra, and looks into the kitchen. Just as he moves to look through one of the rusted cabinets he hears a snarling voice coming from behind him.

 **"Profligate scum! Come here to rescue your tribal friends, eh?"**

The voice sounds old and hoarse. The Survivor turns around in place to see a man who looks to be in his late fifties, wearing the armour of a high ranking Legionary. This is a rare sight in the wasteland, since the Legion's presence in the Mojave had more or less faded away after the Courier had killed Caesar and wiped their main camp out. The Legionary is holding a decorated broad machete that looked very much out of place in the rust and dirt around them. It had obviously been taken care of, and it glistened in the dying light of the sun that leaked in through the cracks in the boards covering all of the windows in the house. The Legionary has a hateful sneer on his face, looking the Survivor over as if he is some kind of deformed mutant. Without warning, he charges forwards towards the Survivor, growling fiercely. Despite his age, he is peculiarly agile, and quickly closes the distance between them before the Survivor can even raise his rifle to fire a round off. The Legionary raises his machete and brings it down, attempting to slash at the Survivor's shoulder. He manages to dodge back, the rifle in his hands catching on the blade with a dull clatter and stumbling the Legionary, sending him back into the main room. The old Legionary growls in rage as he raises his machete up again, regaining his stance. The Survivor has already dropped his rifle and is in the middle of pulling his machete from his belt when the Legionary charges, cocking his machete back. He gets a few steps close to the man when he yells in pain, staggering over to the side.

The Survivor watches as the old man feebly tries to clutch at his back, stumbling around a little. He has a pained expression on his face as he tries to grab at the old ruined armchair in the main room before dropping onto his stomach and convulsing in place. Cassandra steps forward, looking down at the Legionary. Her knife is buried into his shoulder blade, having dug through the tattered leather armour with relative ease before finding its target. She looks at the Survivor, who had grabbed his machete out and was ready to parry the old man before she intervened.

 **"Are you alright?"**

She steps forward, looking her travelling companion over. He can catch a hint of worry in her voice, but she manages to mask the frown on her face. He nods, exhaling sharply.

 **"Yeah. I'm fine."**

She nods, kneeling down next to the old man as he gasps his last few breaths. She looks down at him, unsure what to do. Should she put him out of his misery? Or let him suffer? He had attacked her companion, after all. Before she can finish her thought, the Survivor walks up beside her and grips at the knife embedded in the man's back, giving it a good twist before yanking it out. This causes the old man to let out a pained yelp before going limp. She looks up at him, noticing that he has a faint smirk on his face as he wipes the blood off the blade onto his duster. She frowns, standing up and confronting him over it.

 **"What the hell's with the smirk? Did you get some sick pleasure from that? That was totally unnecessary!"**

She speaks with a clear yell, almost demanding and authoritative. Like a commander talking to an insubordinate trooper. It's the first time in a while she's used it on anybody, since that day in the gas station to be exact. The Survivor looks her dead in the eye, trying to determine whether or not she's being serious with him. As far as he can tell, she is. He loses the smirk, looking serious too. They are almost an inch apart at this point.

 **"I know what the Legion used to be capable of. He deserved a lot more than that for wearing that armour. And stop yelling. Judging by the lack of human meat roasting on a spit in here, he had friends in town."**

He speaks quietly and impassively. From this close, she can see that his eyes seem to be dull, almost as if they themselves were weary of the wasteland. After almost a minute of them staring each other down she decides not to reply to him, backing off. She sighs and starts looking around inside the bedroom, leaving him alone. As she leaves, the Survivor scratches his chin, watching her as she walks. He shrugs and turns around, deciding to rummage through the cabinets in the kitchen. After a few minutes of searching, Cassandra heads into the main room to find the Survivor leaning against the front doorway, peering outside into the dust with his rifle at the ready. He glances over at her and motions for her to follow him out into the dust. She takes one last look around and follows him outside. It's almost dark out, the sun's last dying rays disappearing behind the hills as they walk, and the dust dies down a little, improving visibility. They creep past a few houses until they get to a T-intersection in the town. To their right, at the end of the road is a seemingly intricate yet run-down town hall. The other road leads out of town. From where they are, they can see a flickering fire at the town hall, on the steps leading up to it. Cassandra squints and she can make out a couple of figures standing around near the fire. The Survivor glances over at her and puts his finger over his mouth, creeping forward through the darkness. He sticks to the sides of the houses on the right of the street, avoiding silhouetting the last few rays of light from the sun. Cassandra follows him, now brandishing the broad machete from the Legionary they dispatched a few minutes earlier. As they get closer, maybe two houses down from the town hall, they can hear the conversation the figures are having. It sounds heated, with one person raising his voice.

 **"You come to us with puny guns in hopes of making allies out of the remnants of the mighty Legion? You disgusting worm..."**

From where they are they can make out what's going on, there are three people wearing the armour of the Legion, and one who is wearing the same leather armour as the tribals that had attacked Cassandra earlier on in the day.

 **"Hey, that's the guy who took my gun..."**

Cassandra whispers, eyeing the scene cautiously. The tribal is kneeling with his hands behind his back, they're seemingly bound with rope. The Legionaries are standing facing him, with machetes and rifles. The fire is almost at the tribal's back, and what looks like charred corpses are piled onto the fire.

 **"Well that's the source of the smell..."**

The Survivor mutters to himself, staying low and watching. Cassandra squints and can make out a duffel bag propped against the door of the town hall. She recognises it as her backpack, and can make out the muzzle of her rifle sticking out from the opening at the side. After a few more ramblings from the Legionary who seems to be in charge, the tribal is booted back onto the open fire, screaming in pain as he is burned alive. The Legionaries stand and watch for a while, conversing amongst themselves quietly. Cassandra looks on, feeling a knot in her stomach as she covers her nose with the sleeve of her fatigues. She lets out a small gagging noise, trying not to throw up from the sickening, overpowering stench coming from the burning tribal. The Legionaries all stop talking suddenly, and begin looking around. They obviously heard her, and are on alert. The Survivor casts an annoyed glance at Cassandra as he shoulders his rifle, taking aim at the lead Legionary, the one with the machete who stands at the forefront. He relaxes his breathing, waiting to see if they notice him and Cassandra skulking against the house. For what seems like an eternity, they remain in that position. He keeps the rifle shouldered, while the Legionaries look around in place on the steps. The town gets quiet, the only sounds are the crackling from the fire pit and the howling of the wind. The Survivor prepares to fire, tensing his trigger finger up and breathing slowly, but is interrupted by a loud roaring sound coming from the darkness somewhere beyond the town hall. The Legionaries spin almost in sync and look off into the darkness, aiming their weapons. The leader gasps and speaks to his two men, pointing at something Cassandra and the Survivor can't quite see.

 **"Demons! Steel yourselves, my brothers!"**

The roaring sound is heard again but this time much closer. The Legionaries begin firing off into the darkness, the muzzle flashes lighting their faces and briefly showing the terrified expressions frozen on them. The Survivor slowly begins backing away, towards the intersection. Cassandra, who at this point is still curiously watching them, doesn't notice him backing up until he firmly places his hand on her shoulder and pulls her away with him. She turns and they move quickly, almost breaking out into a sprint once they hit the intersection. They didn't even need to see what these "demons" were, they both know full well what the terrified Legionaries were facing off against. And they both know that if they had stayed in that town, they would have never left. As they run, they can hear that dreadful roaring and bloodcurdling screams of agony being carried on the wind, sending a chill down Cassandra's spine. It's then that for the first time, she finds that she's glad that she hadn't just ditched the Survivor and attacked the town to get her gear back. She could find always find a new rifle, it wasn't worth facing off against the near invincible Tunnelers for her old one. Not by a long shot.


	5. Chapter 5 - Jenny

**"It's freezing up here."**

Jenny looks back at the man who she was travelling with, getting envious of his thick duster coat, specked with snow. He looks at her, chuckling softly.

 **"Should've got a better coat then. Those doctor coats don't look too warm. And besides, it isn't like I have room in this one."**

Jenny groans, waving her arm at him as she tries to hide the stupid smirk on her face. She'd met him in an old ranch house, north of Westside, a month back. Walked in looking for food and was greeted by the barrel of a shotgun being pressed into her nose. After she'd calmly disclosed that she was a Follower of the Apocalypse, and meant no harm, the man had seemed to relax around her, and even let her stay the night. That night turned into a week, then two, then a month. In that month she'd found out little about him, he wasn't very forthcoming with his past. He hadn't even given her a name, yet he seemed to like having her around, even if he wouldn't admit it to her. He seemed to her like the kind of person who'd go out of his way to help people in need. She liked that about him, it reminded her of the Followers. And it was a nice surprise and a welcome reprieve from the overly cautious asshole survivors that would refuse to so much as speak to her without having their guns trained on her like she was some kind of savage. Having someone to speak to did wonders for her.

 **"Kiddo, we're almost there. Keep your head on a swivel, yeah?"**

Her train of thought was interrupted by that same voice. He had this annoying penchant for calling her kid, or kiddo, despite being only a few years older than her, and she hated it. He knew that it annoyed her, and he took great pleasure in saying it as often as possible. She nods, wiping the snow off her shoulders and checking around them. They were walking up a long, winding road through the valleys to the North of the Mojave, where it was snowy. Jenny had pointed out a few areas that might yield supplies, one of which being an old mine shaft near the ski resort. And that was where the two of them were headed. After a few minutes of walking, and idle chatter, they arrive at a hole in the rock-face of the hill they are shadowing. It has a crude wooden grate door covering it. The whole place looks dilapidated and uninviting, with rot eating away at the wood on the door, and old bloodstains seeped deep into it. Jenny looks at her friend, grabbing her trusty 12.7mm pistol from her waistband and cocking it.

 **"Ladies first."**

The man mutters, with a slight smirk on his face. Jenny hits his arm, chuckling.

 **"Yeah, right. Get in there, tough guy."**

He smirks and nods, pulling out the sawed-off hunting shotgun hidden in his duster and aiming it at the door. He inches closer, and checks for any sign of traps, any landmines buried in the snow and dirt, or any tripwires hooked up to the door. After a minute he steps back, satisfied. He nods for Jenny, who steps forward and pulls the door open, allowing him to move past her and into the mine. She follows in after him, leaving the door open in case they have to make a quick exit from the cave.

She can just about see the silhouette of her friend ahead of her, moving deeper into the mine. The passage leads a little deeper into the hill, then twists right and down deeper into the cave. Once they get around that bend, there isn't much light. There are luminescent mushrooms emitting green light specked around the cave, but they don't do much to light the whole thing, giving the narrow passageway an eery feeling that makes Jenny shiver. She clutches at the pistol, sticking close to her friend, who is slowly clearing the passageway, keeping his shotgun raised as he checks every corner. They can't hear anything moving in the depths of the mine, just the whistling of wind and the crunching of their footsteps in the dirt and rocks. The passage leads out into an open area, barely lit. It's hard to see anything, but they can make out the sound of water. Jenny squints her eyes and can see a few crates down by some mushrooms across the room, casting just enough light for her to discern it. She taps her friend on the shoulder and points to it.

 **"Crates, could have food or ammo?"**

She whispers, he nods in agreement. He starts walking further into the cave, keeping his shotgun raised. Jenny follows him, watching his back. She can make out the edge of the ground, where the pool of water starts, leading out into the darkness of the cavern. She shudders, that nausea rising in her stomach again. She gets closer to her friend, almost bumping into him. He smirks a little, remembering how she'd told him about her irrational fear of water that she'd had since a kid, when her grandfather told her about how he saw a prehistoric sea creature in Lake Mead, and it terrified her. Of course if such a thing did exist, it would have died long ago, since Lake Mead had dried up a while back.

They walk towards the crates, guns at the ready. They reach them without injury or incident, not even hearing so much as a rat squeaking. Jenny reaches down and opens the crates slowly, gasping as she looks at the contents. She elbows her friend to come look and he kneels down, scratching his unkempt beard. Inside the crate is what looks like a prepper's stash, it's almost half full with supplies like rope, bottled water, meat from various animals that had been prepared so it would last a long time before going bad, and 3 unopened boxes of .357 magnum ammunition. Jenny smiles, looking at her friend.

 **"Looks like we caught a break, eh old man?"**

He chuckles and digs her in the arm playfully.

 **"I'll show you 'old man' if you carry on with that attitude..."**

She feigns being hurt, rubbing her arm and gasping a little with a small grin on her face. She opens her mouth to retort to him, to flirt back, but is cut off by an unholy screeching sound reverberating through the cavern, echoing. Jenny groans in pain, covering her ears and looking around. Her friend has already sprung up and is pointing his shotgun at the source of the sound, a pack of feral ghouls that had been lurking in the shadows of the cavern, seemingly waiting for food to come to them. Jenny looks around wildly, setting her eyes on the pack before scrambling up and stepping back. She aims her pistol, and glances over at her friend, who is slowly backing off, his gaze trained on the pack. They seemed to be waiting for the pair to make the first move, remaining still, their rotting faces fixated on them.

Jenny begins to back up, keeping her pistol trained on the shapeless mass of figures. As they back up, her boot hits a rock, sending it clattering away from them. The mass starts bolting towards them, seemingly activated by the sound. The ghouls let out another terrible screech, and the booming sound of the 12 gauge is heard, nearly deafening her. She raises her pistol and shoots alongside her friend, backing up with him. They manage to fell two of the pack before they hear a deafening rumbling sound all throughout the cavern, sounds like it's coming from all around them. Jenny looks up just in time to see the roof cave in on them, and she feels herself being pushed into the water at the side of her before it all goes black.

Jenny jolts up from her sleep, looking around with sweat welling on her forehead. She looks around her shack, trying to calm herself down. She sighs shakily, sitting up against the wall of the shack and rubbing her head. She brings her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, trying to calm herself down. She mutters to herself, catching her breath back.

 **"Every damn night..."**

She notices that it's still dark outside, and sighs, laying on her side on her sleeping mat, hoping that she doesn't have to go through that same dream twice in one night.


End file.
